


Another Day

by RAW_SYNTH3TICA



Category: Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Implied Drug Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Implied pedophilia, M/M, Male Slash, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAW_SYNTH3TICA/pseuds/RAW_SYNTH3TICA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neil does a john & thinks Why he is the way he is<br/>no age set for the character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE
> 
> i'm sorry, i don't know whether to be disgusted/pissed/disturbed or proud of this fic

I’m at the playground, the plastic seat of the rocking pony lighting a cold dynamite up my ass while a john takes his time checking the goods. I don’t have to give him another push at his wallet before I’m motioned towards his ride, my swagger giving a bit of a show, throwing my pelvis side to side before I can stop myself. The sky is gray, cold in it’s weak light, bitter and dry like it always is in the autumn, making his car look that much more dull. His smile isn’t lined with a moustache, a little bit of beard, he’s clean-shaven, his eyes wide without wrinkles to crease up around his sockets, his paunch was sandwiched right between his belt and his seatbelt. He had arms like a major leaguer - thick, tanned, hairy and gaping with pores around his hair follicles. If he could lay off the beer I bet he’d have me on my knees begging to suck him dry. 

There’s only one problem: he’s a teacher-fucking townie from the community ass-fuck school for pencil dicks. 

I remember him, he graduated when I was still blowing my load for old farts picking at my cock like starving fleas. The bastard could be my illegitimate brother or an ugly second cousin, and he ain’t my type. 

“Get in,” he says to me. 

I hate dealing with uptight tricks, “Eighty.” 

“Forty,” he insists. 

“Seventy,” I answer. 

“Forty-five,” he shifts his hip against the wallet and container of chewing tobacco. 

“Sixty-five,” I say, ‘accidentally’ scratching at my bellybutton, his eyes eat up the trail of hair on my stomach. 

“Fifty-five,” he swallows the numbers, I get in and sit deeply in the seat worn down by weight and other people, he drives. We go for so long without talking until he’s nervous enough to drop me off at the middle school, “So- what d’you like to do?” 

“Anything,” I say, looking at him, his hands reach for my knees and fondle with the kneecap while pushed myself into him. 

“I’ve never done this before,” he shudders out heavily. 

“Sure you haven’t,” I answer. 

“Take this,” he hands me a blue pill, it’s tiny as my fingernail and diamond-shaped, I swallow without asking questions.

We don’t talk again for the longest time, even longer than someone reading the laws aloud about sodomy and child abuse. He kneads my legs, getting a feel of me through my jeans, once in a while squeezing my cock, and I sit like I’m the last Jack in the world mentally studying up for show time. He used to do this to me. Squeeze my knee while he drove me around. I knew I was queer before I could walk. He liked me, he’s always liked me. I can’t help to like him back, even just for a little bit. 

I heard cows’re given hormone treatments, you know, per-tit-worth of dope to keep themselves perky and ready. Maybe it’s that. Maybe I’m the way I am because of the dope. My age scrabbling by the skin of it’s balls to catch up with my body. I don’t mind. At least something on me is growing besides my hair. That much I can be proud of. 

“You want the money?” he asks me when we stop on the roadside between two silos near a landfill. 

“Whatever,” I say. 

“Strip,” he says, I automatically pull off my clothes and leave them where they fall. 

It’s gotta be the drugs working because when he reaches for my dick, it’s hard and just about to grow it’s own legs and walk away. He licks his lips and gets down to doing business for pleasure. 

I can’t wait to be done and get the money, so then I’ll find a dealer, buy more pot; jack off a clerk, have more booze. I smoke enough to blend a week into years, I drink more and just enough to get the taste of the johns out of my mouth, out of my head, but the memories and stains are always fresh. Always there to be revisited for the next time. 

I'm the coach's boy who grew up too fast and I'm losing myself in the tricks' age. What a life.

**Author's Note:**

> the movie was beautiful but it broke my brain in half


End file.
